


Desert Places

by LadyNogs



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eskel definitely needs a hug, Gen, Geralt of Rivia needs a hug, I just want to make everyone miserable before I fix it, It will get worse before it gets better, Jaskier needs a hug, M/M, Miscommunication, no beta we die like renfri, the slowest of slow burns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:46:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24004570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyNogs/pseuds/LadyNogs
Summary: Three years, four months, two weeks, and four days after Geralt of Rivia ripped his heart out, spat on it, and ground it under his heel on the side of a stupid mountain, Jaskier met another witcher.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 27
Kudos: 156





	1. Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast

Three years, four months, two weeks, and four days after Geralt of Rivia ripped his heart out, spat on it, and ground it under his heel on the side of a stupid mountain, Jaskier met another witcher. It definitely wasn’t on purpose, mind you - he had made a point, in his wanderings, to steer clear of even the rumors of witcher’s work, and as such, had no more songs to sing about the White Wolf. So it was a bit of a surprise to catch the flash of yellow cat eyes at the back of the tavern in Aldersberg, and Jaskier felt he was justified in his slight vocal wobble, even if the crowd did wince a bit.

This witcher was dark-haired, however, not fair, and Jaskier was a professional, so the wobble didn’t interrupt him too terribly, and frankly, it would be unlike him to waste such a perfect opportunity, so he finished the Fisherman’s Daughter and slid easily into Toss a Coin. The witcher at the back of the tavern almost flinched, when he realized what the song was, but Jaskier was undeterred, stepping down off the table he’d commandeered as a stage and winding between the benches as he sang. He made his way to the bar with a cheeky grin, leaning around the laughing patrons, and felt a bitter sort of glee that half the tavern was singing along. The witcher didn’t move, just crossed his arms and glared, and wasn’t that typical. 

Jaskier held the final note, leaning in towards the witcher, and if his smile was a bit forced, so be it. This fellow had arms like tree trunks and a set of wicked scars that pulled the right side of his face into a sullen sneer, and Jaskier would be damned by all the gods before he did anything but smile. Someone scattered a handful of copper on the table in front of him, and the witcher scooped them into his palm without breaking eye contact.

“Bard,” he said, and oh, that was a pretty growl.

“Witcher,” Jaskier replied, with a saucy wink. “What brings you to Aldersberg?”

“Supply order,” the witcher said. “Winter’s a hard season in the Blue Mountains.” Jaskier slid into the seat across from him, suddenly intrigued.

“Ah, yes, you all hide yourselves away in your big spooky keep for the winter.” Yellow eyes widened a bit.

“You’re Geralt’s bard,” he said.

“Nope,” Jaskier replied, popping the “p” sound. “Didn’t you hear? I suppose you don’t gossip like farmwives, what with the whole monosyllabic vocabulary and all.” He was very proud of the fact that he didn’t flinch at the White Wolf’s name. It had taken nearly a year and a half before he could hear that name without feeling the world drop away from underneath him. “He asked for life to take me off his hands. Said it would be a blessing.” A tavern maid brought a welcome pint and set it down in front of the witcher, so Jaskier snatched it and took a healthy swig before his mouth could run away with him even further than it already had. When he lowered the mug, the witcher was….smiling.

“He said you had a mouth on you worse than Lambert,” he rumbled, and his voice was almost fond. “He wasn’t entirely wrong, I suppose, but I’ll be damned if I ever tell him that.” Jaskier felt his pulse throb in his ears, overwhelmed for a moment at the thought of Geralt talking about him, no matter how cruelly, to his brothers.

“Then you must be Eskel,” he said, and if his voice was rough, he could blame it on the terrible ale. The witcher nodded. “Well met on the Path, Eskel,” he said, and he smiled to see the witcher’s eyes widen again. “I know, I know, mere mortals aren’t supposed to know what you say to each other, but I traveled with Geralt for almost twenty years, y’know. He told me at least three things that were important.” The snort that remark earned him was less than delicate. 

Jaskier drained the mug. Eskel merely looked at him. The pause was awkward, almost painfully so, and Jaskier found himself struggling to keep from laughing hysterically, because of course, he would find himself in Aedirn in late autumn, of course, he’d wind up singing for his supper in a tavern where other witchers would drink, of course, he’d be sitting across from a reminder of just how he’d thrown his life away. He was starting to think Geralt was right - Destiny was either a pithy excuse for the terrible things people did to each other, or She had a vicious sense of humor. There wasn’t enough ale in all the taverns in all the Northern Kingdoms to make that any less painful, but by all the gods, Jaskier was certainly game to try. He tried to find an appropriate turn of phrase to break the silence, but his words, it seemed, had deserted him, and there was nothing but the steady gaze of a witcher that wasn’t Geralt. Yellow eyes, watching him closely, and he felt his skin prickle.

“I probably owe you more than just one drink,” Eskel finally said, and his voice was just as lovely, just as warm, and for a moment Jaskier hated him so completely he couldn’t breathe. “That damned song of yours is catchy.” The expression on his scarred face was difficult to read, but it was probably amusement. The witcher flagged down the barmaid and ordered another round for both of them, and Jaskier forced himself to smile at her and bat his lashes. She snorted and headed back to the bar. The silence stretched again, and when fresh mugs slid across the table, Eskel took pity on him. “Look, bard, my brother is often an asshole. I can tell he did a number on you. I won’t excuse his behavior, and I won’t apologize for him, but I will say that I, at least, am grateful. You may have only sung about him, but we all benefited from it.” Jaskier swallowed the lump in his throat.

“Thank you.”

Eskel smiled at him, the scars pulling his lips into a sneer. Jaskier wondered how many times that smile had been seen as something else, wondered how many of Eskel’s scars were from blades, rather than claws. If Geralt’s tattered reputation when they met was anything to go by, probably too many, and Jaskier felt the same flutter under his breastbone as he had so many years ago, in the cliffs above Posada, when Filavandrel had spoken of wheatfields fed on the blood of children. Damn. And here he’d thought he was getting better about making incredibly dangerous decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are, chapter one of what is turning out to be a....much longer fic than I had initially planned. I can't promise a super regular update schedule, since the World is Weird Today, but I've got the first couple of chapters written and the rest outlined. Tags and warnings will update with subsequent chapters.
> 
> Title from the Robert Frost poem of the same name.


	2. In a field I looked into going past,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’d think he’d be past the ache of grief in his chest every time he thought of Geralt, but apparently, that sort of thing didn’t just go away.
> 
> In which Jaskier and Eskel go to market, and Jaskier learns a few things.

Jaskier finished his set - and three more ales - before he went back to Eskel’s table. The witcher had been quiet throughout his performance, but he’d seen him nodding along to the older songs, and that was more than Geralt had ever done. You’d think he’d be past the ache of grief in his chest every time he thought of Geralt, but apparently, that sort of thing didn’t just go away. So he swallowed it down like bad wine and made an elegant leg to the now thoroughly drunken crowd before he retired back to the bar. Eskel cocked an eyebrow at him when he collapsed back onto the bench next to him.

“So, witcher, you said you’re here for supplies,” he said. He could feel the strain in his voice, feel the rasp low in his larynx. Eskel grunted in reply. “I’m planning to head to the market in the morning, myself, and purchase a few things to see me through the winter, but I’m terribly certain I’ll buy all the wrong things and freeze to death.” He was absolutely lying through his teeth, but if his years with Geralt had given him nothing else, they had given him the ability to lie so convincingly that even a witcher’s heightened senses wouldn’t give him away. How else could he have managed to keep Geralt from realizing just how much Jaskier had been in love with him? “Would you mind if I tagged along?” Those years had also taught him just how often Geralt wound up paying three and four times as much as he did, for the same items, no matter how many songs Jaskier wrote. Eskel had been kind, and Jaskier wanted to return the favor, that was all. Nothing at all to do with wanting to pry information about Geralt out of him, or anything selfish like that. The witcher was currently looking at him strangely, like he’d grown another head, and Jaskier gave his best innocent smile. There were worse things, Jaskier supposed, than being eyeballed by a witcher. Like lap harps. Or leeches.

“All right,” Eskel finally replied. He drained his mug and stood. “See you in the morning, then.” He pulled a heavy cloak from the bench and settled it around his shoulders. “I’m camped half a mile outside the walls. Meet you at the western gate?” Jaskier goggled for a moment, shockingly confused.

“Camped?” he asked, feeling his brow furrow.

“Yeah, no room at the inn for a mutant. You know how it goes.” Eskel didn’t seem upset by this in the least. Just like Geralt had been, in Posada. And Claywich. And Maribor. And Tridam. Jaskier had been incensed, the first time a village had driven the witcher from its walls, and Geralt had slung him over Roach’s saddle to keep him from strangling the innkeeper. Time had tempered some of his outrage, but not all of it, and he can’t help the snort that escapes him. Maybe that last ale had been a little too much to keep his natural indignance in check. Eskel gave him a grin. “Don’t take it personally, bard. We never do. It’s why we still get to eat.”

“This is where I remind you that I know, first hand, just how badly you all take care of yourselves,” Jaskier said. Eskel outright laughed at that one, a harsh bark in the quiet of the slowly emptying tavern, and Jaskier realized that he really, really, really wanted to hear that sound again.

“Don’t lump me in with my idiot brothers, bard. I take care of myself just fine.” And then Eskel reached up and laid one huge, warm hand across the back of Jaskier’s neck, pulling him in to press their foreheads together for a moment. “Be at the western gate an hour past sunrise, bard, or I’ll go to the market without you.” Jaskier was still trying to wrap his head around the concept of this show of apparent affection, offered so freely. “Wouldn’t want you to worry I’m getting fleeced.” Jaskier felt his jaw drop, and he tried to sputter something, but he was cut off by Eskel’s laugh and a hearty clap on his shoulder, and then the witcher was stepping out into the dark. For a moment, he almost wanted to follow, but then his good sense prevailed, and he went up the narrow stairs to the room he’d rented for the week to get some sleep.

* * *

Dawn found Jaskier desperately trying to make his coat collar cover more of his neck while he stomped and shivered by the western gate of Aldersburg. Though still autumn, by the calendar’s reckoning, the wind was bitter, and cut through the coat and cloak with hardly a passing glance. He was fairly certain he still had toes, but since he couldn’t feel them, it was really anyone’s guess.

The road that ran from the outer villages through the western gate of Aldersburg had, at one point, been cobbled, but years of neglect coupled with the hard freezes that Aedirn saw every winter had left it mostly just dust, with the occasional ankle-twisting stone rising up from the surface. As the sun lanced over the city walls, it struck the frosted fields, raising a fine mist that was so painfully beautiful that Jaskier held his breath. Not for the first time since he left Oxenfurt, he wished he’d devoted more time to studying the visual arts, not just the bardic ones, so that he could capture moments like this. The first of the farmers’ wagons kicked up a haze of dust from the frozen road so thick it nearly cost him his first glimpse of Eskel.

The witcher was riding a massive black horse, seemingly content to idle behind a farmer’s wagon, cloak tossed back and head tilted back as he scanned the fields. Jaskier wasn’t certain what he was looking for, but there was no mistaking the pleasant half-smile he wore. Jaskier raised a hand as he drew nearer, and that half-smile cracked into something wider, and Jaskier had to stop his traitorous imagination from getting carried away with itself. Once through the gate, the witcher dismounted and opened his arms as though to embrace him, and Jaskier thought he just might die at how warm he was.

“Oh sweet Melitele, you’re warm,” Jaskier said, like an idiot, and didn’t even mind when Eskel laughed at him.

“How long have you been out here, bard?”

“Since before dawn. Didn’t want to be late.” Eskel barked another laugh and stepped back, eyeing him carefully.

“That coat is shit.”

Jaskier huffed on his frozen hands and shivered. “I hadn’t noticed, thanks.”

“C’mon, bard. Clothes first, then the rest of my supplies. Don’t want you freezing to death before winter actually gets here.” Eskel turned back to his horse and rummaged in his saddlebags for a moment before pulling out a thick doublet. “Here.” The wool was finely spun, though it still smelled like horse and faintly of blood, and when Jaskier shoved his arms into the sleeves he was blessedly warmer than he had been.

“Who’s this fine gentleman, then?” Jaskier asked, approaching the big black horse. The animal snorted warily, but then nosed at Jaskier’s chest, and he scratched gently around his eyes and cheeks.

“Scorpion.” Eskel’s voice was warm with pride. “He’s saved my hide more times than I can count. Best surprise I’ve ever gotten.” Jaskier perked up at that.

“Law of Surprise, then? Quite a boon.” He resolutely didn’t think about his own encounters with the Law of Surprise.

“Better than Lambert ever did. Best thing he’s ever gotten was a mangy hound and a bushel of sour apples.” Jaskier gave Scorpion one last friendly scratch and turned towards the flow of people heading to the central square.

“Shall we go and find what we need at market, Master Witcher?” Eskel’s grin was worth making a bit of a fool of himself, Jaskier thought. There were worse ways to spend a chilly autumn morning than wandering an open-air market in good company.

* * *

The market was busier than Jaskier had anticipated, but no less pleasant for it. Hawkers had stands with fabric walls to cut the chill, and the air was full of the smell of spices and dyes and animals. After tying Scorpion to a nearby hitching rail, Eskel led them into the market proper and down a narrow aisle of tailors and weavers and dyers. He seemed to have a specific destination in mind - a weaver with a broad, kind face and both finished garments and lengths of fine-spun wool. When he saw Eskel, that face split into a broad smile, and he embraced the witcher like a brother.

“Arnault, you old dog!” Eskel crowed, slapping the wool merchant’s back and laughing. “How’s Dee and your little ones? Still up to no good?”

“Ah, Eskel my boy, you know it. Dee’s back home settling in the ewes for the winter, and swearing to me that she’ll not have the bairn before the thaw.” The merchant’s accent was as broad as his face, but Jaskier listened with only half an ear. He was looking at the woolens on display in the merchant’s stall, and realized that Eskel had dressed him in some of this man’s wares, albeit clearly from a prior season.

“Looking to outfit your brothers this year, pup?” Eskel nodded.

  
“This one, too,” he said, gesturing at Jaskier. “I’ll leave the measurements for the others, and pick them up in a week or two.”

Arnault was the first of many merchants that Eskel apparently knew like family. As they made their way through the market, they were plied with mugs of hot spiced cider and rolls, sweet candied nuts and flaky meat pies, dripping with hot fat, and Eskel chatted his way through arranging for grain and ale and vegetables and soap and thread and a hundred other small sundries that Jaskier had never thought a keep full of witchers would need. Eskel made some notations in a small leather notebook, and when he was satisfied, they wandered to the horse trader and Eskel arranged for the rent of a mule and cart for the end of the week. Jaskier had mostly just followed, watching Eskel charm his way through the marketplace, but as the afternoon waned into evening, he steered them closer to the hitching rail. Scorpion stood dozing in the fading light, one hip cocked, and Jaskier scratched along his neck.

“Today was certainly an education,” Jaskier said. “And there’s only one possible way I can repay you.” Eskel grunted, securing his smaller purchases in Scorpion’s saddlebags.

“How’s that, bard? Gonna write me a song, make me famous?” Jaskier grinned.

“Nope.” He gestured at the market. “You worked hard today, it’s only fitting that I buy you a meal and lend you the use of my room at the inn.” Eskel arched an eyebrow. “I’ll have the innkeep bring in another bed, and we can both get some actual rest.”

“As long as you don’t snore.”

“Silent as the grave, on my honor.” Eskel huffed a laugh and turned toward the inn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's finally edited!
> 
> Given how the story is going so far, I'm anticipating 16 chapters, one for each line of the poem. Editing is a painfully slow process for me, and writing hasn't been much better lately, but progress is being made.


	3. And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier heads north, for completely logical and well-thought-out reasons, and Geralt deals with the onset of winter, as well.

The next day dawned cold and overcast, and Jaskier rose several hours after dawn, not in the least surprised to find that the fire had been well-banked and that Eskel was long gone. As he scrubbed a hand over his face, he looked about the little inn room and noted that the second bed was neatly made, the kettle was full, and there was a scrap of parchment weighted down with a river rock on the small table by his head.

> _Dear Jaskier,_
> 
> _I did not want to wake you, but I have Errands in the City that cannot wait. Thank you for your Hospitality and Fine Company. May your travels on the Path lead you Home again._
> 
> _Yrs,  
>  Eskel, of the School of the Wolf_

Jaskier carefully folded the parchment and tucked it into the front of his notebook. It was now, quite possibly, his third favorite possession, after Filavandrel’s lute and his songbook. The rock was fourth, as it was smooth and green and lovely, and Jaskier was a magpie at heart. He washed his face in the cold water at the washstand, dressed, and went down to see about breakfast.

The innkeeper scowled at him over the mug he was drying, but Jaskier laid on his most charming smile.

“I am positively famished, good sir,” Jaskier said. “All this bracing fresh air! Would you happen to have any breakfast laid aside for a weary traveler?” The innkeeper grunted and walked back to the kitchen. While he waited, Jaskier drummed a spritely rhythm on the bartop with his fingers. The bowl of kasha that the innkeeper brought back wasn’t precisely appetizing, but it was hot, and filling, and would keep him several hours on the road, so he tucked in and ate his fill. When he had scraped the last of the porridge out of the bowl, he packed his new purchases away, slung his pack and lute over his shoulder, and headed for the western gates.

Arnault really was a wonder - the new doublet he’d gotten was nearly a soft as his silks, but was infinitely warmer, and Jaskier was fairly certain he’d be warm as toast for the entire winter, even if he didn’t find a court to land in for the season. The sun gave little warmth, but it did catch on the edges of the stubbled fields, sending little sparks of light up to meet him, and with a smile, Jaskier turned north. A little over a fortnight to reach Ard Carraigh, where he could find wine and women aplenty, and hopefully a noble house in desperate need of entertainment for the long winter months.

* * *

It was just a drowner nest.

Nothing special, nothing particularly difficult, even, just a pain in the ass. There was no way to clear a nest of drowners that didn’t involve getting utterly filthy. The village ealdorman had been drunk, but he’d agreed to a fair price - 20 crowns a head - and so Geralt had waited til dusk in the dusty village inn before heading out towards the riverbed.

It took nearly three hours of grinding, thankless swordwork to dispatch the last of them, and then three bombs to shred the nests and collapse the tunnels. Roach whickered in disapproval at the muddy leather sack that Geralt tied behind her saddlebags, but that sack was the equivalent of almost a month in a warm stable, with fresh oats every night, so Geralt didn’t really care what the mare thought of the smell. He’d need to sharpen the silver before he slept - drowners always meant a dull blade, afterward - but he’d managed to avoid getting dunked, so he could probably get away with just a hip bath.

The village inn was still lit warmly, and Geralt could hear some sort of sprightly reel filtering out into the night. Great. The ealdorman would likely be even drunker, if he hadn’t already passed out. If he was lucky, he’d be able to at least get a hot meal and a bed, if he couldn’t get his bounty tonight. There were still some crowns rattling around in his purse. He tethered Roach in the stable, rubbing her down with a handful of loose straw. He’d have to see a blacksmith in the morning, too - she needed new shoes. The noise from the inn rose, but he hardly registered it, trudging up the narrow plank steps.

He opened the door on chaos.

The minstrel was cowering behind an upturned bench, along with the waitress - there was blood on her temple. Half a dozen men were busy beating the ealdorman with their fists, and another dozen were beating each other. Geralt heaved a sigh. From the amount of blood that was already flying, he wasn’t going to get paid tonight, and his chances of a meal and a bed were pretty slim, too. 

“Fuck,” he muttered. He dropped the drowner heads on the bar, much to the barkeep’s dismay, and waded into the fray to extract the ealdorman.

Five minutes, three punches, and two swift and carefully placed kicks, and Geralt had pulled the ealdorman out from underneath the pile of angry farmers and dropped him on a bench close to the hearth. He’d been badly beaten, but it was worth it to try and wake him up. The mood in the tavern was hostile enough to make his skin crawl. He snagged a miraculously unbroken mug of ale and emptied it in the ealdorman’s face, who spluttered awake with a groan.

“Job’s done,” he growled. “My pay?” The ealdorman managed a laugh, his split lip dribbling blood down his chin. 

“Freak,” he spat, spraying more blood. “Get out of my town, Butcher.” Geralt heard the scrape of boots on stone, sensed the hostility of the crowd in the inn. “Get out, and don’t come back.”

Fuck.

He should have known better than to venture this close to Blaviken. But contracts were thin on the ground, lately, especially this close to winter, and it hadn’t been a good season on the Path to begin with. He really couldn’t afford to leave this shithole village without at least some of the bounty, but he could afford getting killed here even less. He rolled his shoulder, feeling the joint click. With a wordless snarl, he turned away from the ealdorman and faced the crowd. There was no love lost, in those faces. He could almost hear the sound the stones would make, when they eventually found his flesh, and he wanted to at least spare Roach such treatment.

As he cautiously collected the few belongings he’d left behind the bar, he thought, not for the first time, that things had been easier when Jaskier had traveled with him. The bard would have softened even this harsh an audience, would have used his silver tongue to calm the bar before it broke into a brawl. Of course, Jaskier would also have steered their travel well clear of Blaviken, and they wouldn’t even be here in the first place. Geralt swallowed the burn of his own regrets, just as he had for the past three years, and shouldered his saddlebags. He could walk Roach, keep her sound long enough to find another village, and if the crowd turned before he could get beyond the gates, the saddlebags would provide a little extra protection against the cobbles that turned under his boots.

Roach was less than pleased to be roused from her stall, but Geralt avoided her sharp nip at his wrist as he slipped her bridle over her ears. He left the reins looped over her neck, in case she needed to bolt, and together they made their way through the village and back out to the road that ran from Blaviken to Tridam, the river a flash of silver through skeletal trees. The moon was high when the last traces of woodsmoke faded from even his nose, and his breath made thick clouds in the chill of the night, and not for the first time, Geralt let himself wonder if some mistakes could not be undone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! After a major re-write of the second half of this chapter, I can actually dig into chapter 4, which will complete the first quatrain of the poem and set the stage for the second quatrain.


End file.
